JUST CALL ME PUMBA

Something started happening to me recently that I cannot believe I am about to discuss in public.

I’m snoring.  And I don’t mean that cute little snuffle / purr that some people do.  I am apparently full feral hog these days.  Pretty, huh’?  I feel SO attractive right now.

Like everyone, I will go through a little rough patch now and then from allergies, but that is usually over within a couple of days.  Whatever is going on now has lasted about three months.

Think back to the trip to Wales. Imagine Sandy’s surprise in our shared hotel room. I had warned her in an earlier blog – but she didn’t believe me. When I awoke the first full day of our trip the conversation went something like this:

Sandy: “Peanut, I love you like a sister, which is why I can tell you this. You snore like a feral hog.”

Me: “I warned you. Why would I kid about that? That is not an attractive quality to have.”

Sandy: “I just couldn’t believe it. At one point during the night, I actually thought I was going to cry.”

Me: “Sorry. Snort.”

By the fifth night we had the whole routine down to a science.  Sandy explained that every other night, I breathed steadily, if a bit raspy, but the OTHER nights I sounded as if I had the world’s worst cold and couldn’t breathe at all. Then I would STOP breathing. At that point she would crack an eye open and stare at me (probably not sure whether to wish me alive or not.) Suddenly, I would gasp (or snort)  – perhaps not as delicately or as ladylike as one might wish, and start the whole thing over again.

This amount of “snore detail” was news to me.  Hubby had mentioned my snoring. That conversation went something like this:

Hubby: “You’re snoring. Loudly. It’s gross. Stop it and be my pretty, non-snoring wife again. Or else.”

(That may or may not be a direct quote, but it was definitely IMPLIED.)

My doctor has recommended a sleep study.  Apparently, aside from just making you an embarrassed and obnoxious roommate, snoring (Sleep Disordered Breathing – SDB) can cause the following *relational issues:

  • Irritability
  • Personality changes
  • Decreased sex drive
  • Loss of intimacy
  • Clashes with the bed partner (spousal arousal syndrome)
    (* SleepWell Solutions)

I like the term “spousal arousal syndrome.”  Apparently this is the “spousal arousal” we do NOT want; the one that results in statements like “If you don’t stop snoring I am going to hold that pillow over your face until you suffocate for real,” and “How much life insurance do you have again? Maybe we should up it.”

I have already detected other *symptoms I am exhibiting lately, such as:

  • Excessive daytime sleepiness.  (Okay, I normally have this anyway, but still.)
  • Poor memory or clouded intellect.  (Thought it was either age, or a result of my “wasted” youth.  – Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink.)
  • Performance decrement. (No comment. I don’t like that word.)
  • Inability to exercise. (Gee, I thought that was my innate laziness. How great I can now blame it on something else!)
  • Becoming more prone to accidents. (Well, we’ve all covered that before haven’t we? – See paragraph, oh, around 10, in Confessions of a Frustrated Former Warlord.)
    (*SleepWell Solutions)

Other potential health problems include death.  Death is definitely something I wish to avoid.

I think it should be pointed out that SleepWell Solutions is NOT where I am going for my sleep study, even though it is where I have gathered all this nifty information. I went to THEIR website instead of the company where my sleep study is actually taking place because THAT website frightened me silly.

How so? Let me show you the room in which my sleep study is likely to take place.

STOP SCREAMING!

Oh, sorry.  That was me.

Yeah, take a gander at that. It looks like someone’s dead grandmother’s room.  A grandmother who was neither motherly nor grand.

She was definitely dead, though.  And itchy.

(This reaction COULD be from having been exposed to actual interior design for the past ten years. Not to mention Max and Tony’s influence. But I think I would have been freaked out regardless.)

So you can see why I had to go to another website to collect information about my potential condition.

I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep there.  And if I do, I’m afraid I’ll have bigger issues than Sleep Disordered Breathing.

I’m going to ponder this situation. I have until next Wednesday to figure it out. Or to arrange for delousing on Thursday.

Dear Sleep Study Place,
May I bring my own bedding?
How about my own bed?
Carpet?
Pictures?
General decor?

Sweet dreams, people.

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OF MICE AND FINER MOMENTS

My good friend, code name: Ms. Bone, was reminding me yesterday of one of our “finest moments” as roommates. We were in our mid-twenties and living in Valley Ranch. Cue the dreamy harp music as we go back in time…

Picture this: A large living room divided the apartment, with a bedroom on opposite sides.   In the middle of the living room sat two couches at right angles to each other. Yes, we each had our very own couch, which comes in handy later. 

One evening, I was in my bedroom for some reason when I heard a great “WHOOP!” from Ms. Bone.  Moments later, another “WHOOOOP!” followed by “Ann!”

I ran out of my bedroom and rounded the corner to find Ms. Bone standing on top of her blue couch, doing some sort of dance. Although I couldn’t identify the dance at first, I had a hunch it was not a happy dance. This was confirmed when Ms. Bone pointed to the floor behind me and babbled “Mouse!”

I leaped three feet from a standing position to the cushions of my couch, gasped so desperately I nearly sucked all the air out of the apartment and began a little “There’s a mouse in our house” dance of my own.  (Told you it wasn’t a happy dance.)

After much debate we decided to attempt to persuade the mouse to exit our 1st floor apartment. In other words, while prancing on the couches and keeping a watchful eye on our little furry brown friend in the corner, we realized every man we knew was either out-of-town, or likely to “assist” by appearing at our door with a camera to record our hysteria for posterity. You can see why persuasion was our preferred choice.

I drew the short straw and was forced to make the first attempts to catch the mouse.  With powerful girl reasoning, I decided to use a sauce pan to try to trap Ricky (detested, misunderstood brother of Mickey). I can only imagine I thought having a handle meant I didn’t have to get too close to him. I approached him several times, arm extended, holding the pan.  As soon as I would lower the pan toward him, he darted in a very appropriate mouse-like way, scaring me silly and causing squeals to erupt from Ms. Bone and myself. This was particularly disturbing because neither of us was prone to squealing about ANYTHING.  In other words, the pan method was a failure.

I hopped back on the couch to begin the “There’s a mouse in our house” dance again. The next method of attack was decided. Broom and cardboard. Ms. Bone would wield the broom, I would wield the piece of cardboard and we would urge him toward our front door which was now hanging invitingly wide open (we hoped).

Although I liked this idea because it meant we were BOTH on the same level with the mouse, I disliked the thought that we might inadvertently a) hurt the mouse in the process or b) annoy the mouse until it attacked one of us.

Using the patented “Advance, Shriek, Retreat” method, we were actually making progress with Ricky. We moved him past the kitchen and were headed in the general direction of the front door when I remembered one important thing. I was a cat owner.

Second important thing: Kahlua had been awakened by the commotion and was now VERY interested in our little game. I heard one low-pitched “meeeeooooow” before Kahlua joined the fray. Luckily, Ricky moved faster than Ms. Bone or I did and made for the open door before inexplicably changing course and running under the door of the coat closet. The coat closet that was still full of boxes and such.  The one that had lots of places to hide. Forever, if necessary.

The next half hour consisted of repeatedly throwing the cat out the back door and watching as she quickly circled the house and re-entered through the still wide open (invitingly, we hoped) front door. The closet was emptied one item at a time, with delicate deliberation and often a little panicky jump in anticipation of a mouse racing across our feet. Kahlua continued to try to get into the closet, we continued to push her out, and the mouse was no doubt busy having a little mouse heart attack.

Aside: I’m not quite sure why we never put the cat in one of our bedrooms. That must have made too much sense for us at the time.

Anyway, just as they say, “It’s always the last place you look,” as Sandy poked the broom handle at the last box in the closet, Ricky came tearing out. We both blocked the attempted route back into the living room (somehow) with broom and that threatening flat piece of cardboard. To our delight, Ricky spun around on his little bony mouse feet and scampered out the front door, making a sudden right into the bushes, Kahlua on his heels. (Don’t worry. We are almost 65% sure he escaped. Maybe even 75%. It’s amazing how quickly you go from “don’t hurt the mouse” to “screw the mouse” when you think you might be co-habitating with said mouse against your will.)

Important lessons from this “finest moment:”  1) We don’t need a man to rescue us.  2)  The higher off the ground your couch is, the better. 3) It would still be nice if a man HAD rescued us, but he would have done it all wrong (according to the “There’s a mouse in our house” dancers).